Sleeping Beauty...
by Maladetto Lupo
Summary: A short, rather fluffy S/B fic...Spike and Buffy both trying to cope with her resurrection...


Spoilers: "Bargaining"  
Author: Keith Duval (Maladetto Lupo)  
E-mail: Lobishomen@aol.com, maladettolupo@yahoo.com  
Rating: G...Maybe PG. There's the slightest bit of violence.  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters portrayed herein. They are copyright, well, people who make a lot more money than I do.   
Summary: A short, fluffy little piece...Buffy and Spike trying to get a handle on her resurrection.  
Distribution: Absolutely, just drop me a line first.  
Notes: None, save I hope you enjoy  
  
  
Sleeping Beauty...  
  
"Delusional,   
I believed I could cure it all for you dear,   
Coax or trick or drive or  
Drag the demons from you  
Make it right for you, sleeping beauty  
Truly thought I could heal you   
Far beyond a visible sign of your awakening   
Failing miserably to rescue sleeping beauty   
Truly thought I could make it right   
If I kissed you one more time to   
Help you face the nightmare..."  
--A Perfect Circle, "Sleeping Beauty"  
***  
  
Her eyes dart back and forth...Those glistening pools of forever, like the ocean flecked with gold...skittish and frightened...Like a cornered animal. She hasn't said a word, and the others, her Scoobies, haven't been exactly forthcoming with the details. But you can guess by her fingers, scraped red and raw with dirt pushed so far under the nails that they've cracked and splintered, that they're not what most would call pleasant.   
  
The kettle whistles, and she jumps at the sound. The steps run through your mind as they have a thousand thousand times before: pour the water, steep the leaves, strain the tea. You place the cup on the table in front of her, carefully, as though it would shatter if it made the slightest noise. She stares at it, somehow unsure of how to act. You take her hand, curling her fingers around the handle of the mug, and urge her to drink. Somewhere inside you, there's more than a vestige of the Englishman, who still believes that a cup of tea solves everything. Or maybe it's all you can think to do.  
  
Clawing your way out of your own grave is not an easy thing to forget, you ought to know that better than anyone. A century and then some, and you can still taste the earth filling your mouth, struggling, choking, begging for the cool night air. And you don't need to breathe. You can only imagine what it must have been like for her. She's showered a dozen times...her hair is still wet...yet you know she doesn't feel clean.  
  
You reach out to touch her, to comfort her, but you pull back. You want to take her in your arms, to prove to yourself that she's real and warm and here, that she's flesh and blood and life and not cogs and sprockets and wires. You want to tell her that everyhing's okay now. Or maybe you want to tell yourself.   
  
Suddenly, her knuckles have gone white, she's gripping the mug so hard. Her breath comes in ragged, angry gasps and you can see her whole body tense all at once. And so fast even you can't see it, the cup flies from her hand and explodes against the wall. She screams so loud the room vibrates...the painful, guttural roar of an animal.  
  
Her eyes squeeze shut as she clamps her hands over her ears, shaking her head wildly, her hair whipping from side to side. You curse them all for what they've done to her. She shouldn't be here...not like this. She's lost so deep in that mess.   
  
You stand behind her, trying, needing to do something, anything...you put your hands on her shoulders, hoping to calm her...and she slams an elbow into your gut. She spins, pounding you with blows, splitting your lip, opening a cut above your eye. You're up against the wall and she's still punching, thrashing, tearing at you. And for just an instant, it seems right. This is how it always was. This is how it should be. But no, there's no music here...no rhythm...no dance. You gain your bearing enough to block her, pushing her hands away as they come crashing down on you. You call her name, hoping to whatever god will listen that she'll hear you.   
  
Finally, you take hold of her, forcing her to stop, and you scream with everything you've got: "Slayer!"  
  
A moment passes by in utter, frightening silence. She blinks. Then she collapses, sobbing, into your arms. Instantly, instinctively, you hold her tight to you, running your fingers through her hair, whispering comforts to her...just sounds, really, no actual words... there's really nothing to say. She somehow seems so small and fragile...a china doll...an image of herself carved in porcelain.  
  
Oh, but her eyes. She looks up at you from between gasps for air, and those eyes...there's absolutely no question what...who she is. It's all there, a hundred lifetimes and everything that you couldn't help but love, surrounded by the most perfect blue anyone ever painted. Van Gogh's got nothing on this.  
  
And the sobbing slows to a whimper, and stops, and you realize she's sleeping. You lift her, carrying her to her mother's bed, laying her down carefully, as if she would shatter if you made the slightest noise. You lie next to her, brushing a stray blonde curl from her face...and you do something you've wanted to do for so long...you watch her sleep.  
  
There will be consequences. The devil must have his due. And she probably won't even remember any of this later. But here and now, it's happily ever after. You're nothing close to Prince Charming, there's no denying that...but maybe the world will let you pretend just a little while longer.  
  



End file.
